A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

“What's the matter with a little game of poker?” asked Sheeley, lightly
running a deck of cards up the length of his arm and reversing them with
a deftness that spoke of long familiarity.
“Great idea!” exclaimed Dillingham expansively. “Just pass that bottle,
will you? What's that, Morley? Haven't got time? What in thunder's the
matter with you to-night?”
Donald retorted, with great dignity, that nothing in thunder was the
matter with him, except that he wanted to get back to town.
“Better not start with it storming like this,” urged Sheeley, as a crash
of thunder shook the windows. “It'll let up soon.”
“Tell you what I'll do!” said Dillingham, putting an arm across Donald's
shoulder affectionately, and speaking a trifle unsteadily. “If you'll
play a couple of games I'll go home with you--You ought to be willing to
do that for a fellow that's going to be your uncle. I mean your nephew.”
“And you'll go the minute the rain lets up?”
“Yes, if you'll play with us.”
Donald stood irresolute, watching Dillingham's thin, unsteady fingers
shuffle the cards. He must get him home somehow, for Margery's sake.
Dill never knew when to stop, he was good for the night unless somebody
intervened.
Sheeley caught his eye and nodded significantly.
“All right!” said Donald, dropping into the vacant chair. “Only two
games remember! No whisky, thanks. What's the ante?”

CHAPTER IV

When Miss Lady had championed the cause of the oppressed that afternoon,
she had unknowingly spoiled a criminal in the making. Chick Flathers,
at the advanced age of eleven, had been so impressed by the injustice of
social conditions that he had dedicated himself to a life of crime. He
had already achieved two appearances in the Juvenile Court, and two days
in the Detention Home. He was now fully decided to be a burglar.
To be sure there were extenuating circumstances for Chick. It was
unquestionably a handicap to have opened his eyes for the first time in
an ash barrel, and in Mr. Flathers' ash barrel at that. The transfer in
a patrol wagon to an incubator in the City Hospital had been the next
move, hence back to Mr. Flathers' who, inasmuch as it was his ash
barrel, felt called upon by Providence to adopt the foundling.
The next misfortune that befell him was in being dropped out of the
window on his head, during one of Maria Flathers' absent-minded moments.
This apparently did not affect his head, but in time it seriously
affected his speech. The fact that he had so much to say, without
being able to say it, resulted in a dammed-up current that sometimes
overflowed in temper and viciousness. He talked a great deal, but nobody
was able, or took the pains to try, to understand him. That is, not
until Skeeter Sheeley gave him his nickname and became his official
interpreter.
Their friendship dated from a memorable day when Skeeter had for the
first time heard of the incubator incident, and had promptly accosted